


Angel

by Challenger2011



Series: Adrenaline [3]
Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, General Harding Isn't Such a Bad Man Afterall, M/M, Michael Just Loves Flying Alright?, Near Death Experiences, No That Doesn't Mean Sex With A Plane, Temporary Character Death, aircraft porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-08 19:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17987510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Challenger2011/pseuds/Challenger2011
Summary: Quinn suffers from sleep deprivation after a Major from the war has it out for him.





	1. Chapter 1

Angel

 

Captain Wilbur was bored. 

He’d been standing at parade rest in front of Major Atkin’s desk for about 10 minutes now while the Major ignored him. He’d been on the phone when Wilbur arrived, waving him in. It’d been 6 minutes since he’d hung up and was currently squinting at some paperwork on his desk, small piggy eyes almost disappearing into the wrinkles around them. Wilbur knew the Major was trying to get under his skin, but was determined not to let him.

Major Atkin had been a pilot during the war, the same squadron actually, when Wilbur and his front seater Quinn had come up on his bad side. Not that the man had a good side. The Major, only a Second Lieutenant then, was a terrible pilot. He’d botched so many missions that the other pilots had actually resorted to sabotaging his plane to keep the man from coming with them.

He’d done it himself a few times, usually when Quinn didn’t get there first. Nothing big, just flat tires and popped circuit breakers, things like that at inopportune moments that kept the man’s plane from taking off on time. He knew the Major was certain it was Quinn’s fault, even long after Quinn hadn’t had to do it anymore, and he’d hated the 2 of them since, blaming Wilbur for not ratting Quinn out.

The man had been hated by maintenance as well. Every time the plane didn't work he went into a rage. Red faced, with a tendency to spit while talking, it really wasn’t long before the pilots didn’t have to sabotage the plane anymore, it broke hard on one botched landing of many and maintenance never fixed it. Parts never arrived, they told him.

Wilbur wasn’t sure they’d done themselves much of a favor though. The man’s lack of talent for flying was more than made up by his ability to kiss ass. While they were flying missions, Atkin was making a name for himself somehow to the highers and had secured a promotion to First Lieutenant and was moved into a different squadron for paperwork.

Now the man was a Major, a close aide to General Harding and still very much angry at Wilbur and Quinn. Mostly Quinn. He wasn’t usually in a position to lord anything over them, having been moved out of their Chain of Command long ago, but the ongoing switch from the Mustang fighters to the new Sabers had brought them together again. And was he ever taking advantage.

He sighed internally, wondering how long it was going to be before Atkin was satisfied he’d lorded his rank over him long enough.

As if Atkin heard him, he looked up from the paperwork strewn across the desk and glared at Wilbur.

“What are you here for Captain?”

Wilbur came to attention. “Captain Jones, our First for the sortie practice tonight is currently in medical with a broken leg, sir. He will not be flying tonight.”

Atkin scowled at him.

“And how did that happen?” The tone was icy.

“He slid off the wing sir.”

Wilbur flinched a bit as the Major’s hand came down hard on his desk, the red already sweeping up his neck to his face.

“The lead pilot instructor teaching the useless ingrates here to fly these million dollar planes, FELL OFF HIS OWN WING, and BROKE his leg? Is THAT what you’re telling me Captain?” The last word was accompanied by spittle flecks sparkling in the air over the desk.

“Yes sir.”

For a moment Wilbur was afraid the Major was going to flip the desk at him as he gripped the edge and stared at him. 

“Who - is going to take his place?” Wilbur paused.

“Captain, I asked you a question.”

Wilbur straightened. 

“There’s only one person in the state at this time that can take his place sir, but he is not part of this unit, and I’m afraid there is some - animosity between the squadron and this person. As well, this man has been pulling double duties for 4 weeks now.” Wilbur’s eyes dropped to meet the Majors’ in time to see the slow smile creep over the piggy features as the Major relaxed and sat upright, releasing the table edge.

“Captain Quinn.”

“Yes sir.”

“And where is the good Captain at this moment?” The tone was silky.

“Home sir. Captain Quinn finished his task at 2300 hours tonight and based on distance, I imagine he will be in bed about now.” Wilbur realized his mistake as that smile became triumphant, tiny eyes almost glowing with sadistic glee.

“Your mission is supposed to take off in 1 hour correct?” Wilbur swallowed. He didn’t need to answer, the Major knew very well the timing of the training mission. He was the one who set it as the ranking officer in charge of the integration of the new jets into the resident fighter squadron.

Major Atkin leaned forwards. “Well I guess you’d better go get him, hadn’t you?”

Captain Wilbur snapped to attention. “Yes sir.”

“Dismissed, Captain.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael groaned as the phone’s ring pierced his ears again. He hadn't been able to get the phone the first time, so exhausted that whoever was calling had hung up before he’d managed to roll over and reach for it. He’d been hoping they wouldn’t try again. He swore if this was Dr. Hynek he was going to hang straight up, he’d been up for 4 straight days now minus a 45 minute nap in his car yesterday at lunch. He was so far past exhausted he didn’t know what he was anymore. He needed sleep.

He didn’t care if the man was in a spaceship right this second and calling him from fucking Mars orbit.

“Hello?” The word was slurred and so gravelly he wasn’t sure the person on the other end understood, the line staying silent for a few seconds.

“Michael?” It was Wilbur.

“...The fuck do you want?”

“You need to get to the base within the next 45 minutes or Major Atkin is going to show up at your house to personally hand you your discharge papers in 1 hour.”

“What?” Michael propped himself up on his forearm, slightly more awake.

“Jones fell off the wing on the walk around earlier and he broke his leg. There’s no one else to run the training mission as First. You’re up Hollywood. Briefing in 50, wheels up in 90. Don’t miss either one.”

“The fuck -?!” The line was already dead. 

Michael stared blearily at the phone in his hand. He slowly placed it back on the receiver and looked at the clock next to it. 0210. God, he’d been asleep for 30 minutes. It took another moment for Wilbur’s words to sink in before Michael’s eyes widened and he threw himself out of the bed so fast he tripped over the sheets and nearly ate shit into his desk. Scrambling around for clothes, no time for the uniform and he would be putting on a flight suit anyway, he made it out the door in 4 minutes. The base was a 35 minute drive from here and he still had to change when he got there.

He didn’t even really remember the drive, couldn’t remember even locking his front door when it felt like all of a sudden he was at the main gate, handing his ID to the guard on autopilot. The guard squinted at him in the glow of the orangey light on the building. 

“Are you ok sir?”

Michael flapped his hand at the man. “No, but I’m in a hurry.”

The guard handed the ID back and moved to open the gate. Michael drove through and accelerated up the hill towards the hangars glowing in the distance. He didn’t really pay attention to the speed limit, it was zero dark-go-fuck-yourself and he had 7 minutes to get parked and changed and find Wilbur. Speeding across the ramp between the parked Sabres as a shortcut to the parking lot on the other side, he was grateful to see Wilbur standing under a street light there, a pile of fabric in his arms and the blocky shape of Michael’s helmet on the ground beside his feet.

Wilbur came up to his door and had it open before Michael even had the car off, handing him the pile. It was his flight suit.

“I think I love you right now.” Michael said as he started removing his clothes while getting out of the car. Kicking off his shoes and shucking his pants nearly at the same time he pulled the flight suit up his legs over his boxers and stood up. Dropping his jacket down on the seat behind him, he pulled the sleeves up his arms and zipped the suit, grabbing the offered combat boot. Wilber kept the other as Michael struggled for a moment to balance and pull the boot on, eventually leaning on the side of the car to do it and accepting the second one.

“You’re not going to love me when you realize it was me that inadvertently threw you under this bus.” Wilber glanced at his watch.

“Shit, we gotta run. Like now.”

Wilber grabbed his arm and pulled, nearly knocking Michael over since he was leaning backwards on the car, and didn't even pause as Michael booted his car door in passing. He hoped it closed. He didn’t need a dead battery on top of the rest of tonight’s fuckery.

Pulling his arm free, he grabbed the other piece of equipment from Wilbur’s other hand and started trying to get it on while Wilbur pulled him forwards. The vest went on easy, drop it over his head and slap the sides together, but the leg straps were way too awkward to do while moving and they hung down behind him, buckles and stiff fabric banging painfully into the back of his legs as he stumbled behind the other Captain. Reaching the door, Wilbur thrust Michael ahead of him into the door hard enough to open it, his hands going to Michael’ sides to reseat the velcro and close the buckles there as they entered the room.

Everyone in the room turned to stare at the duo at the huge bang the door made as Michael hit it and burst open so fast it hit the wall. Ow. That didn’t feel nice. At the front of the group of pilots sitting in the middle of the empty hangar staring at him, Michael could see Major Atkin scowling at him. He glanced at the clock in time to watch the hand tick onto the minute of his deadline. He’d made it.

Walking down the aisle between the seats as Wilbur faded into the back row, Michael recognized the pilots of the local squadron that were flying that night at the front, though the whole squadron was there, all 40 of them. Well, 39 since they’d called him. He dropped into the seat right at the front, aisle side and dead center, that was clearly left for him with a loud clang of kit. The sound echoed around the vast room.

The Major scowled at him. “Nice of you to join us, Captain Quinn. I hope we weren’t inconveniencing you asking you to be here on time?”

Michael smiled tightly and twitched his hand on his leg. “No sir.”

He knew he looked like a bag of shit, hair wild from being half gelled and slept on, boots undone with laces flapping and his ALSE harness partially done and dangling all around him. Good chance he was going to get something caught when he went to stand up actually too, but he owned it, relaxing on an angle into the seat and sliding down like he didn’t care, one hand raising to rake his hair straight back into some semblance of order.

Michael hoped to god he could stay awake for this briefing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Wilbur glanced around the room slowly, taking in the change of atmosphere as Quinn slid down in his seat. He knew the man was exhausted but to everyone else it clearly looked like he didn’t care with the careless way he skirted insubordination with the Major and the current condition of his kit. Like he thought he was too good for this. Michael was good at schooling his expression, but his default was a cocky look and the slight twist to his mouth and his heavy lidded eyes made everything worse.

This squadron was the one he’d raced on call out drills a few months ago to prove the jet was better than planes and a lot of them held Quinn personally responsible for the loss of their Mustangs. Not that Quinn had anything at all to do with that, it was Major Atkin’s fault in actuality, but that didn’t matter.

The Mustang pilots had a heavy disdain for the Sabers and Quinn was the epitome of what they called a ‘fighter fag.’ Handsome and smugly superior, hair looking like it was supposed to be in the mess it was, though Wilbur knew Quinn had never let his hair look like that at work in his life. He’d also never lorded his jet qualifications over anyone in his life but these pilots didn’t know that. Quinn just loved to fly, and wanted to fly everything with wings at least once. Except helicopters, his dislike of those was well known. He’d gotten the jet and now he didn’t want to go back to anything else. Problem was that they were so new that there weren’t many qualified pilots to train the new ones.

Wilbur could see the glances and glares of the others in the room at Quinn.This was a bad idea having Quinn join this squadron so soon, especially as First. Not that he thought there was ever going to be a good time for Quinn to join this squadron. There was too much animosity now. Tonight was not going to go well.

Refocusing on Quinn, he stared. In the last 2 minutes, he was pretty sure Quinn had fallen asleep twice for over 15 seconds. His head didn’t move, nor did his eyes close, but the blank look that came over him before he jolted was symptomatic of micronaps. People that were undergoing sleep deprivation had those. They didn’t even notice it because the mind was so unfocused it couldn’t track the loss of time properly. Wilbur sat forward, heart rate picking up.

This was dangerous.

Quinn was about to get in the cockpit of a million dollar aircraft with a full tank of fuel and live bombs strapped to the wings and he was falling asleep with his eyes open in front of Atkin. He could die if he went up, or someone else could. Wilbur needed to make this stop, scrap the mission. Atkin would be mad, but Quinn would be alive tomorrow.

As the briefing wrapped up Wilbur made his way forwards and grabbed Quinn’s upper arm. The man jolted and Wilber realized he had woken him from another micronap. He leaned down and whispered harshly into Quinn’s ear.

“How long has it been since you slept?” Quinn glanced up at him and Wilbur despised the easy grin that the man gave him.

“Got 30 tonight?” Wilbur shook him.

“I’ve watched you fall asleep 4 times in the last 3 minutes. You’re so sleep deprived you’re micronapping. You can’t fly tonight. You need to be on restricted duty for 24 hours before you can be called to fly, even if the war started again right this second!”

Quinn snapped to his feet, the loose harness catching on the chair and knocking it over with a loud clatter, and yanked his arm out of Wilbur’s grip. He leaned close, dark eyes wide and intense.

“You said it yourself, if I’m not on this mission I lose my career. Even if I don’t get a full discharge we both know I won’t leave this room a Captain.” Quinn’s voice was so low and rough it was hard to understand.

They stood, chest to chest so close Wilbur could feel Michael’s hot breath against his face, eyes locked in a battle of wills and Wilbur fought the need to back away. Honestly, Wilbur was a little frightened of the shorter man sometimes. Their team had been broken up when Quinn had been pulled to Special Interrogation after being shot down and the man had deployed back into Germany as an attachment to an Infantry unit. He was gone for 9 months, and whoever came back was not the Michael James Quinn Wilbur had known, though he was so close sometimes. That intense gaze held a promise of violence that Wilbur couldn’t match. Whatever had happened to him there had instilled something in him Wilbur couldn’t understand and it scared him. Wilbur was a threat to Quinn right now and he was sure the man could kill him in this moment if pushed.

He backed down, eyes casting off to the side away from that uncomfortable stare, unconsciously baring his neck to the monster he sensed in Quinn. Quinn turned his head to follow him, nose nearly brushing Wilbur’s jaw.

“If you go to Atkin about this we’re done. I’m fine.” He turned and stalked away, the monster hidden again under the polished veneer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael was actually pretty sure he wasn’t ok. He didn’t remember much of the briefing, just the basics of the mission. Teach the new pilots how to accurately hit a target with a bomb in the dark. Hell, he didn’t remember leaving the hangar after talking to Wilbur. 

He regretted threatening his friend, he saw the fear in Wilbur’s eyes and posture as the man conceded to him. It made him sick. The monster inside was so close to the surface lately he wasn’t so sure anymore that the monster wasn’t just him.

He slowly realized that he was standing next to his jet, the large shape shining silver in the floodlights. A maintainer was standing a few feet away, awkwardly watching him after having set up the ladder while the pilot stood there staring into space. Michael gave himself a shake. He smiled at the maintainer. Always be friendly with the maintenance guys, missions didn’t happen without maintenance and they took care of the pilots they liked.

“Thanks.” Quinn surveyed himself quickly and gave the maintainer an embarrassed smile as he bent to do up the leg straps of his survival harness, quickly securing them around his thighs.

“Long night, just gotta get my shit all in the same sack.” The maintainer laughed with him, the uncomfortable air gone.

Grabbing his helmet off the ground where he’d placed it, Michael climbed the ladder and swung his leg into the open cockpit. The space was tight and he stood on the seat for a moment before plunking the helmet on his head so he could use both hands to brace and lower himself into the seat. A couple light bangs on the side of the lower fuselage had him leaning over the side to see the maintainer looking up at him as he moved the ladder away.

“Safe flight sir.” Michael smiled and nodded. He fucking hoped it was.

Michael flipped the essential power bus on and glanced at the gauges as he strapped himself in. Battery was good, fuel full. He calmed, this was his element. Looking out over the nose he flipped the marker lights on. Green and red lights lit up the wingtips, and a flashing beacon on the bottom lit the tarmac below it. Behind him, Michael could see the light from the beacon on the top of the plane flashing steadily off the wing’s shiny surface. Looking to the Marshaller with the glowing wands about 50 feet away and off to the left he got the signal to start.

Taking a moment to consider the gauges again, Michael flipped the rest of the power busses on, hearing the APU spool up with a loud whine. Waiting 30 seconds Michael flipped the starter switch with one hand, watching the rpm gauge rise, opposite hand steady around the throttle. At 12% he advanced the throttle quickly, the deep whoosh and quickly rising gauge informed him of a perfect light off, and Michael quickly pulled the throttle back to the idle stop.

The jet rumbled around him, a slight vibration making everything inside shake. He checked again, eyes flashing over the gauges as he buckled the oxygen mask closed and flipped down the green visor lense. The cockpit took on an unearthly green glow and Michael chuckled to himself at the comparison with his other job before triggering his mic.

“Tower this is Flight First checking in, hot on spot one.”

“Flight First, Tower, what's your call sign?”

“Tower, First. Call sign Hollywood.” Michael could hear the snort as the tower triggered the mic too fast.

“Copy Hollywood, proceed your discretion to runway 2-2, hold and await instructions.”

Michael triggered the cockpit seal and watched the marshaller outside as it came down and slid forward into place. Only the wands were visible now, indicating for him to advance and turn right, the cockpit closing having been the signal he was ready to go. Advancing the throttle, the sound of the engine building he gave it a short burst of power and released the brake. Rolling forward, he turned the nose at the marshallers signal until the lights of the taxiway came into view. 

Getting into place was tedious at slow speed but you didn’t rush it, especially since he was setting the example for the other pilots that would be following him shortly. Sitting at the end of the runway at idle Michael took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth and forced himself to relax. Takeoff in a Saber required more concentration than a Mustang. It had a strong tendency to pitch up sharply and if let go too far would actually flip over. With a full wet wing style fuel tank and 2 bombs on those wings, that was a sure fire way to die quick.

“Tower, Hollywood requesting permission for take-off.”

“Hollywood, Tower, permission granted.”

Michael took another deep breath and advanced the throttle, waiting a few moments as the engine responded and built power, before letting off the brakes. The rumbling turned into a roar as the force pushed him hard back into the seat, a heavy pressure on his chest he fought by tensing his abs to protect his lungs. Watching the gauges, he pulled up at the earliest possible V1 and felt the tail drop as he came off the ground into a slow climb to 5000ft. He intended to circle at that altitude as the rest lifted off. Flipping the gear switch he felt the vibration of the gear moving and the heavy clunk of the bays closing, a feeling he trusted far more than the light on the panel that went out to signify the gear was safely stowed.

A textbook take off. Take that Wilbur.

The next few hours went by quickly, the adrenaline and anger of the local pilots testing his patience and arguing keeping him feeling relatively awake until all the bombs were dropped. Michael realized he was in trouble when he noticed he’d been staring at the same gauge for uncounted seconds and had to bring his head up to look around quickly to see what was going on. He’d drifted to the left, coming almost too close for comfort to the Sabre on that side, though luckily the pilot had noticed and adjusted, the motion carrying on down the line since they flew in a V formation like geese with Michael at the tip.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open. Blinking slowly, and shaking his head to wake up only partially working. Hearing a faint buzzing again that he realized he’d been hearing most of the night, Michael triggered the comms to the squadron channel in time to catch the last words of a rant disparaging his flying skills based on the drifting. He scowled.

The next statement had him fully awake though.

“Hey Red, did you hear from tower back there?”

“Hear what?”

“Quinn’s not on this channel is he?”

“Naw man, he hasn’t been all night.”

“Oh. Well, tower was talking to the maintainers back home waiting and heard Quinn’s partner - you know, that nerdy old guy, died last night!”

The radio was overwhelmed momentarily by the chorus of “Holy shit, really?s and ‘No way!s’” But Quinn wasn’t really listening anymore, only vaguely registering the continued conversation as his eyes turned to the sky, a weird detached feeling settling over his body. Dawn was coming, but he still had just under a half tank of fuel since he’d been circling leisurely most of the mission, and the stars were still visible. As he was watching, they started to blur.

“Hey! Watch it Hollywood!” Came angrily over the mic. He felt the disdain for his moniker over the radio clearly. He didn’t answer. His hand on the throttle started to shake. He pushed it forwards to max.

Cries of alarm burst over the radio and the jets behind Michael’s scattered, peeling away from the sudden trail of flames at their formation’s center and the lead Sabre accelerated away at max thrust. It took only seconds for the jet to cross the threshold of transonic flight, the cone visibly forming off the nose with a thunderous bang.

“Hollywood! Tower, what is going on?!”

Michael ignored it, he was still looking up the stars. No matter how fast he went, they still looked stationary from the cockpit.

“He heard us, holy fuck he heard us!” Came over the local frequency from one of the other pilots.

“The FUCK is he doing?!”

“He’s losing it.” From Red. “Blue, with me! Follow him! The rest of you, land now!” On the other frequency. “Tower, we’re in pursuit of Hollywood, I think he’s cracking up.”

Michael didn’t register the Tower’s acknowledgment. He had way more fuel than the others, they wouldn’t catch him. The stars were disappearing now as the sun rose, the sky turning light blue and pink. He didn’t know why but the anxiety tearing at his throat got worse as they disappeared. He pulled back on the stick to climb.

The tower started pleading with him to answer, Wilbur’s voice taking over after what felt like hours.

“Michael, please answer me”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wilbur was on the phone with General Harding. Quinn was clearly cracking, his exhaustion and sleep deprivation combined with grief doing something to his head. The returning pilots had told the Tower what they’d been talking about and Wilbur knew the only way to confirm was to get it from the source. He didn’t know Dr. Hynek’s number, but the General did. The situation necessitated the blowing up of protocol.

“Is Hynek dead?!” Was the first question out of Wilbur’s mouth as soon as Harding answered.

“What? Who the fuck is-?!”

Wilbur cut him off. “Quinn is cracking up in the pilot seat of a Sabre. The squadron was talking about news that Hynek died tonight and how Quinn was going to freak out on the ground. He flamed the jet closest to him with the afterburner and took off. He’s slowed, but he’s been circling the base now for 20 minutes not answering. He keeps getting lower!”

Silence, then: “WHY the FUCK is Quinn FLYING RIGHT NOW?! WHO ORDERED THAT?!”

Wilbur took a deep breath. 

“Major Atkin, sir.”

A growl. “Last I heard Hynek was fine, but you’ll be damn sure I’ll fucking find out fast.” The phone clicked as the General smashed the received onto the set.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Allen was woken from a sound sleep by thunderous banging on the front door. Mimi jumping up and grabbing his arm.

“Doctor Hynek! Doctor Hynek answer the door!”

Stumbling and shaking Mimi off, Allen raced to the door, ignoring Joel looking out of his bedroom door after him, frightened. Opening the door Allen was shocked to see military trucks on his lawn and blocking the street and a young MP accompanying a Captain on his doorstep. The Captain grabbed him, practically shaking him.

“Are you Doctor Allen Hynek?” The urgency was palpable.

“Yes, yes I’m Allen Hynek whats-?” He was cut off by the MP turning and bellowing to the trucks, “It’s him! He’s alive! Call it in!” The movement on the street turned into a frenzy. Neighbors pouring out of their houses to watch. Allen could see suspicious Donna from next door staring at him in his pajamas being shaken by a military Captain. The rumors were going to be crazy after this.

“Doctor, you need to get changed now, this is a matter of extreme urgency. A helicopter is on its way and we need to meet it at the park down the road in 5 minutes.”

Allen was shocked, this night just kept getting crazier. “A helicopter? In the park? What for?!”

The Captain took a deep breath. “Captain Quinn was sent on a training mission last night in the jets and someone told him you were dead. Apparently he’s suffering from sleep deprivation and they think he’s cracked.” The words had a context Allen understood immediately.

“He’s been flying in circles over the base for 40 minutes now with no response to calls. He has maybe a half tank of fuel and possibly one bomb left. If we don’t get there by the time the other jet refuels and gets back up there, or if he leaves his orbit they’re going to shoot him down!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The F-86A Sabre has a max flight ceiling of 50,000 feet. The climb speed is 12,000 feet per minute with the single engine at max.
> 
> Trying to keep this realistic. I'm not a pilot but I am Military Air Maintenance so I sort of know what I'm talking about. Please point out if I get something wrong.

Chapter 2

 

“Do you have ANY FUCKING IDEA what you’ve just done?!” Harding couldn’t help himself on sight of the fat Major sitting in the office. He took pleasure in the fact that the Major was already sweating and he’d only said one sentence. Piggish eyes stared at Harding out of a piggish face.

“You’ve been giving Captain Quinn double duties for 4 FUCKING WEEKS behind my back and called him back to fly a BOMBING MISSION when he hasn’t slept more than 2 hours in 5 days! What the FUCK is wrong with you?!”

The Major was sullen when he answered. “Quinn deserves it. He’s never actually doing anything.”

Harding wiped a hand over his face. He couldn’t believe how stupid this man was on a regular basis, but this was taking the cake.

“CAPTAIN Quinn is assigned to running Project Blue Book for me. He flies 12 hours a month to keep certified and he does whatever other fucking jobs I tell him to. He doesn’t stop.” The last words were a loud hiss.

“Quinn was selected for this position based on his psych evals and record. Do you know anything about that?” Harding was working himself up again.

The Major shook his head negative.

“Captain Michael Quinn was matched with Professor Hynek using their evals. They came up as a good working pair on a fucking mental level. And on the side, I get to keep an eye on the man holding the #2 spot on the Russian’s fucking birthday wishlist! Not because they think they’ll turn him -” Harding cut the other man off before the protest he could see forming slipped out.

“- But because he has a redacted file as thick as my FUCKING DICK! Because his service record looks like he took a 2 year vacation in the middle of the fucking war! Because if THEY can’t use his skills, they sure as FUCK don’t want US to EITHER!”

He stuck his finger into the Major’s face. “He’s worth more to me dead than you are to me alive and it's not just because he’s fucking pretty! So you’d better hope they get that plane down Major, with the 2 of them in one piece! DISMISSED!”

Harding spun round after the man left and knocked the lamp off the table, belting it across the room. There was a bit more to the story, but he’s sure wasn’t going to tell it to that piece of shit.

Captain Quinn was a fucking prize though the General didn’t believe that Quinn was actually aware of that status. Probably the only thing he wasn’t aware of really. He had been matched with the Professor, who had been cherry picked from the best minds in the country, for more reasons than just a basic psych eval. Quinn’s personality profile, created over his years of service indicated the Captain was a perfect partner for the Professor. Relatively open minded, loyalty levels off the chart, probably bi-sexual though the eval didn’t dive into it too far. It did note that Quinn showed no clear preference of sex despite his overt flirting with women, and was likely to bond with one person at a time. It did recommend monitoring though as that loyalty strength became an issue in a sexual pairing making it compete with his loyalty to the Country and Chain of Command.

The Captain’s training as an interrogator though, that's what Harding had really needed. He’d known about some of it when he chose Quinn, none of the redacted information, and the man himself read far different than the paper did. The Captain had seemed like a lot...less than he really was for quite a while. Pretty face and a bit of a push over, concerned with a post in DC. The control required to hide the sharp mind inside that head was impressive. 

Harding had seen a glimpse when he’d sent the interrogator to basically interrogate himself over that missing item from White Forest. The Captain bursting back into the room had surprised him, as did the methodical search of the room for bugs. Quinn had apparently realized quite quickly what was going on and set a trap for the General, which he’d walked right into. Smaller though the Captain was than Harding physically, he’d felt the danger from the man in his stare. He also knew that when he’d had to physically push Quinn away from Risotto, it didn’t take much because the Captain hadn’t really wanted to kill him. Quinn was angrier at Harding. 

Outside, chasing after the man up the street and away from his backup in the car, something in the back of his mind screamed at him not to touch, not to make full eye contact. He had anyway. He’d seen the darkness inside Quinn. Had seen how close it was to coming for him, the disdain it held for him. Realized that the only control he had was the ties of rank that day, and it had been so close to not working. Such an ephemeral thing to control someone with.

He thought, when he’d met Captain Quinn the first time, he was getting an effective dog on a leash. Easily controlled, useful, but not excessively bright. He realized now that what he actually had was a fucking monster by the tail. Quinn knew a lot more about what was going on than Harding thought he did. The calculating mind behind those almost black eyes had seen through everything Harding had done to hide. He didn’t know what it would take to free Quinn of the self imposed bonds, but he was certain that if he were to die before old age, it would be at the Captain’s hands.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to find that comforting or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael woke with a start. 

Everything was hazy and he was restrained somehow. The light was a weird color too, green and bright. He stared at it for a long moment. 

Something whipped past him, fast, the backwash shaking him. He was in his plane. Attempting to move his head to follow it, which was tilted over to the left, he realized for a moment that he couldn’t. A small whine escape escaped from his dry lips before the shaking of the jet popped the helmet out of where it had wedged between the seat and the glass. The world spinning, his stomach feeling like it was crawling up his throat, he tried to make sense of the kaleidoscope of images he was seeing through the visor.

His eyes flicked over the gauges he could see, the effort of holding his head up steady was too much, the forces pushing him left too strong. The airspeed was way down, dangerously so, an alarm beeping constantly in the background. Michael could feel that his stick was pulled back though giving the plane a nose up attitude as it flew in a relatively tight right circle. 

What was going on? What was he doing up here?

Another plane blowing past his own on an upwards angle, aggressively close this time, rocked him further awake and he scanned the sky through the cockpit dome as his head rolled back and forth on the seat back with the gut churning motion. Only 2 planes, shining brightly in the morning sun, the glare washing out his vision even more and leaving floating circles in his view. What they hell were they doing? Those were the new planes from the base squadron.

As they approached again Michael gripped the joystick tighter, the buttons digging into his palm. Just as they came up on his right side, Michael twitched the joystick back and right in a quick motion, pushing the throttle full forward from where it had been sitting dangerously close to idle as the weight of his arm had slowly pulled it back while he was unconscious. The yellow striped jet neatly lifted and twisted, rolling upside down in a maneuver that saw him pass upside down over the other 2 and come out behind them on their right. He watched the other pilot’s heads follow him as if in slow motion, his exhausted mind not able to follow the quick movements anymore.

The movement however proved to be too much for his spinning head and Michael abandoned the controls in a frantic effort to remove his helmet before he vomited. He nearly made it, the contents of his stomach pouring from his mouth and nose into the helmet as he strained forward against the seat restraints retching helplessly. The helmet had nowhere to sit when not on his head, and thrust against the instrument panel it blocked his view of the gauges as he curled up over.

The mic switch flicked up, pushed by the helmet as it wedged its way down between the panel and the joystick. The joystick moved back from the pressure and the jet’s nose lifted again, engines at max pushing the jet into a swooping ark upwards and away from the other 2. The change in atitude and the g-forces forcing Michael back against his seat again.

Dimly Michael realized he could hear voices coming from the helmet, the comms switched on again.

“I can see him. He’s not wearing his helmet!”

“Passing 10,000ft!”

“MICHAEL PLEASE ANSWER ME!” 

And quietly, “Quinn?”

Allen? Michael’s head rolled back against the seat. His vision dimming, breathing getting labored, he realized he could see the stars again. A few faded points of light that got brighter as he watched. He focused on them, tuning out all else. Would Allen be up there when he got there?

The sky outside began to darken around him as the 2 jets in pursuit broke off with anguished cries that echoed tinnily from the helmet speakers.

Still focused upwards, chest heaving now, Michael’s vision went black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Allen didn’t remember getting dressed. He was running across his lawn to the green jeep against the road with the MP Corporal’s hand on his shoulder to pull him faster. Jumping in the side, since there were no doors, the Captain behind the wheel didn’t even wait for him to settle, accelerating up the road towards the park at the far end of the street while Allen hung on. The night was crazy, people everywhere and lights flashing. The situation hadn’t sunk in yet.

Reaching the park the Captain didn’t bother to stop, jumping the curb and driving through the empty playground towards the field behind it. A soccer field.

Whumph, whumph, whumph.

The sound of the helicopter approaching got louder, it was passing over where his house was, he could see the people in the streets from the park, looking upwards. It passed overhead with such a loud noise Allen didn’t hear the Captain telling him to close his eyes until he yelled it directly into his ear. Allen tucked his head into his arm just in time as the furious downwash of the helicopter’s rotor blades blasted stinging sand and grit into the side of the jeep and his face. The jeep shook under the assault.

The wind and noise died down and before Allen really had time to get his bearings, the was pushed out of the jeep by the Captain and practically dragged halfway to the helicopter before he got his legs under control and ran on his own. Coming up beside the grey monster, the Captain handed him off to a man in a harness that Allen assumed must be the Flight Engineer and Allen hustled inside and thrust into a seat. A pair of headphone were thrust onto his head, the FE plugging them into a long cord.

“Sit back! I gotta strap you in!” Allen snapped upright, his hands flying to shoulder height from his lap as the man got close. He pulled the straps tight around Allen buckling them on his lap and patting him on the shoulder as the FE moved back towards the door.

“Cabin secure!”

The whine of the engines grew louder, the chopping sound more pronounced as the blades angled to catch the air. The aircraft lifted off the ground nose first in a rolling, bouncing motion that made Allen queasy.

Thankfully the ride wasn’t long, maybe 20 minutes to the base in a direct line. As he was ushered off the helicopter he recognized the man waiting for him at the edge of the pavement. Captain Wilbur. He hurried over at the FE’s go ahead, handing the headset back before he went.

Captain Wilbur was already walking back towards the tower. His expression was tight as he watched the movement on the paved apron to the left and Allen followed his gaze as he jogged to catch up.

“What’s going on Captain?”

Wilbur gestured to the sky and Allen looked up.

“He slowed down a while ago from the crazy speed but he’s so slow now he’s going to crash if it gets slower. The nose is up and he’s just kind of - circling.”

Above them Allen could just make out the tiny shape flying in a circle over head. It looked like a plane on takeoff, nose up sharply but held in place by the weak engine thrust. It looked wrong.

“Has he answered yet.”

“No.” The reply was terse as they reached the tower door.

The tower personnel turned to Wilbur as they reached the top floor. “Red and Blue are about to make a pass next to him to see if they can see anything inside that might tell us what is going on.”

They hurried to place the offered headsets on their head, just in time to hear the first jet make its fly past.

“Tower, Hollywood appears to be unconscious. He is leaning against the window on the left side. Helmet may be stuck on the seat.”

“Blue can you confirm?”

“Sure.” A moment later. “He’s moving now, we shook him up a bit. Doesn’t look good though. Going round for another pass.”

Through the window Allen could watch the small shapes dance around each other in the air. Quinn’s jet looked so wrong next to the other 2 in its odd flying attitude. It was slowly losing altitude and had dropped over 400ft in the last few minutes the tower guy told him. The jets came around for another pass.

“Holy Shit!”

The men in the tower gawped at the sight of the flashy silver and yellow jet performing a perfect inverted position change, coming out on their tails. The maneuver had been perfectly executed and would have allowed Quinn to shoot down the 2 planes had his been armed. Even off his head, Quinn was still a better Sabre pilot than the other two.

“I think something’s happening.”

Allen could see the jet was passing the others now, though it almost looked like it was slowing again right afterwards.

“He’s going up again!”

“Hollywood’s doing something, he was grabbing at his head.” The 2 pilots pushed their planes to try and catch Quinn’s jet. They were running low on fuel despite having landed earlier for a top off. There hadn’t been time to wait for a full refuel and had gone up with under a quarter tank each. They didn’t think Quinn’s jet had much left in it either, the use of the afterburner when this started would have eaten a large chunk out of his fuel.

Suddenly new sounds came through the headsets. Loud beeping, and the sound of someone throwing up interspersed with pained moans and gasps. Wilbur and Allen stared at each other for a moment.

“Its Michael, his mic is on.”

“Is he throwing up?” From one of the pilots, Allen wasn’t sure which.

“I can see him! His helmet is off!” Allen watched Wilbur’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Passing 10,000ft!” Wilbur jumped for the microphone in front of the tower man. 

“Michael! You gotta put your helmet on! We got Allen here Michael, he’s ok!”

A pained sound came through the microphone, further away than the loud retching had been and Allen realized that he could hear Quinn breathing now. Wilbur looked wild, his eyes beginning to shine with unfallen tears.

“Michael you gotta come down! You can’t breath up there!”

Allen paled, the blood rushing from his face to his feet in a dizzying woosh. Quinn didn’t answer but the sound of his breathing got more and more labored as they listened and Wilbur pleaded desperately one last time into the microphone.

“MICHAEL, PLEASE ANSWER ME!”

Allen figured out how to activate his mic, the static in the headset disappearing momentarily.

“Quinn?”

Gasping breaths were the only sound from the headsets. The planes overhead were so small they couldn’t be seen anymore, Allen barely registered the Tower guy telling Wilbur the radar had them at 38,000ft when the two pilots broke off the pursuit with an anguished howl over the comms. Michael’s plane continued to climb. Wilbur was crying openly now, staring at the radar screen read-out as the plane reached 45,000ft. 

The sounds Michael made now were horrible to listen to, broadcast over the open channel from his plane. There was clearly no air left and the desperate choked sounds his body made as it fought to breath ripped Allen’s heart out and smeared it all over the tarmac. Vision blurred, Allen collapsed on the floor as the horrific choking sounds sped up quickly, Michael’s lungs beginning to spasm in the near vacuum. He gripped the headset so hard it cut into his fingers but couldn't make himself remove it. 

Michael was suffocating, he couldn't leave him to die alone too.

Silence except for the muted beeping of the cockpit alarms came from the headset now. The mic cut out a few moment later, leaving Allen on the floor with a hole in his chest from grief so big he thought he would die.

Michael’s struggle was over.

On the radar Wilbur watched in silence, tears streaming down his face, as the blip of the plane suddenly became 3 small ones, then disappeared altogether from the screen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

51,000 feet up, the curve of the Earth visible now, the sky black above and the stars looking so close, the engine of the yellow striped jet tried to suck vacuum and stalled. Losing its upwards thrust the plane appeared to hang in place for a moment before tumbling backwards towards Earth. The stresses were enormous as it flipped wildly end over end. It couldn't take it.

The plane disintegrated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fighter aircraft use a limited LOX system to provide breathing air for the pilots above 10,000 feet. The fighter does not pressurize the cockpit, only providing air through the mask. The mask would put some oxygen into the cockpit if removed due to the negative pressure but the sabre has altitude settings to adjust the amount based on height. Without turning the dial, the small amount provided under 15,000 feet would not be anywhere near enough to survive on above that.

Chapter 3

 

The wings departed first, the force of the air tearing at them as the Sabre rolled in freefall, separating them from the fuselage at the root. Unimpeded, the main fuselage continued to fall, small pieces beginning to rip off, slowly getting bigger as the damage grew. The horizontal stabilizers leaving as the wreckage passed 30,000 feet was the last straw for the injured aircraft.

The main body broke in half behind the cockpit, the Liquid Oxygen system finally having enough and igniting into a fireball, blowing the remainder of the main fuselage to pieces. The expanding explosion of the oxygen pushed the cockpit section way from the main wreckage. Inside, Captain Quinn’s body was compressed, hammered by the G-forces in multiple directions. The seat however, performed as it was designed, containing his body and keeping it safe. The squibs at the bottom of the seat finally fired, the angled top of the seat blowing through the remains of the glass canopy and ejecting the pilot and seat away at a horizontal angle from the remains. 

The pressure and sudden raise in oxygen from the LOX system as the liquid turned back into a gas combined with the wild fluctuating g-forces acted in combination to palpate Michael’s failing heart.

He woke terrified. Disoriented and nearly blind, eyes streaming in the freezing air tearing at his face from the incredible speed. The wind sucked the little air he had right out of his lungs. His chest and lungs burned like fire, the pain of multiple broken bones tearing at his senses and unable to draw a breath. He choked. 

He was outside! 

Where was the plane?

The seat assembly was spinning wildly heading down to Earth on a diagonal, his body only saved from catastrophic injury by the straps holding his legs and torso almost immobile to the seat. The original intent of the equipment to prevent movement of the pilot around the cockpit during maneuvers or losing limbs on ejection doing its job for him now.

Moment after ejection the seat deployed a small drogue from the rear, slowing the wild tumbling, but passing through the range above 10,000 feet in seconds. At 8,000 feet, Michael felt the main chute open, a rapid jerk that hurt his neck before the fall slowed dramatically. Looking down, barely able to see, he focused on the ground as he took the first proper breath in what felt like forever and screamed in agony.

He couldn’t see the base below anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Allen didn’t remember throwing the headset off with a howl or how he got outside. After the mic went silent the grief crushed his chest like a vice. He had to get away. He couldn’t make a noise, could barely breathe through the pain. He registered arms around his shoulders, holding him to someone’s chest, grass under his knees and his hands fisted in the other person’s clothes.

Through the tears he could see a crowd forming, the squadron of fighter pilots racing from the hangar, faces pointed at the sky. Cradled as he was by the man he recognized as Captain Wilbur, Allen was able to look up as well. Far above the base and to the west a fiery explosion lit the sky.

Michael’s plane coming home one last time.

Fresh tears blurred his vision again and the loud wail he heard didn’t sound human, so full of grief and pain it hurt to hear. 

Pieces of the plane were falling, some of them reaching as close as the field at the far end of the runway, many more spread in a debris field that spanned miles. Metal chunks and something he vaguely recognized as part of the tail section of the jet, the parked ones close enough for comparison. The airfield was frozen in horrified silence except for the loud crash alarm blaring from the speakers. It failed to produce motion though, the sight of the fiery remains a clear indication there would be no survivors.

The visual of something in the distance, floating down like an awkward leaf, indistinguishable until the sun caught it and revealing the yellow stripes and letters USAF was the last straw. Allen felt himself begin to hyperventilate, Wilbur’s hands on his cheeks trying to turn him away from the horrible sight and face the other man failing. Blackness crept over the edges of his vision.

Allen passed out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Wilbur stood at the podium inside the empty Sabre hangar where Major Atkin had stood, looking out over the group of red eyed pilots and maintenance personnel filling the seats. The Major had been apprehended moments before by the MP’s and removed to the temporary jail on Base pending the investigation into the crash. Wilbur knew the day’s events hadn’t sunk in yet, the world felt surreal, like he was moving through molasses. He needed to take charge though, there was no one else.

In the front row, the pilots Red and Blue were focused on the floor in front of them, tears streaming slowly down their faces. The night had brought some clarification to the flight that had gone up about the type of man Quinn was...had been. 

His patience and jokes and clear expertise made the night fun for them though they knew they had gotten on his nerves. They had learned more in one night from the man they knew as Hollywood then they had in the previous weeks of flying. Personal failings and anger at their inability to get used to the handling and speed of the jets had been smoothed over and eliminated by the calm voice in their headsets explaining not only what they were doing, but WHY they were doing it. How it should feel when they did it correctly. He had even demonstrated a few times, his deep voice talking through the whole thing, describing the sensations and gauge readouts to watch for, the simple joy in flying plain to hear. His steady cheering when one of the pilots had performed a maneuver they had struggled with correctly had slowly broken down their hatred.

By the end of the night the flight had changed its mind about the man called Hollywood, finally realizing the name was more likely from his looks than his attitude. The members had been sad to find out about Quinn’s partner FOR him, and had intended on taking the pilot out for drinks so he wouldn’t be alone in his grief. They wouldn’t get a chance to thank him now. The fireball in the sky had cut all of them to the core as they watched helplessly from the ground. The loss of the first Sabre outside of combat and the loss of one of the most decorated pilots in the USAF’s history coming as a huge blow. 

They felt sick thinking that it had been caused by them, especially since they had all seen Quinn’s older partner outside the tower, howling in grief into Wilbur’s shoulder as the fiery remains fell from the sky. He was clearly alive.

Wilbur could see it on their faces and he couldn’t let them remain thinking that. Quinn wouldn’t have blamed them.

“What we know about what happened tonight is limited so far, but we do know why it happened.” The room quieted at his voice, faces all turning to where Wilbur stood the the mic.

“Major Atkin has been arrested for his malicious campaign of sleep deprivation and harassment against Captain Michael James Quinn. Sleep logs show he should have been restricted from flying since 3 weeks go when his crew rest cycle was first interrupted. He will be commended postmortem -” Wilbur’s voice hitched. “- for performing this training mission at a sleep deficit of over 200 hours and still getting the job done.” The gasps and horrified looks on the gathered pilots made Wilbur feel better slightly. 

They would all know who the real Quinn was after this.

Wilbur’s voice softened. “This squadron had no hand in the incident, though the tower personnel who spread the rumour of Dr Hynek’s death will be reprimanded. Due to severe sleep deprivation, Captain Quinn was likely suffering micronaps before the mission. The extended time in the air and high stress environment combined with the shock caused him to pass out in the cockpit. The removal of his helmet from hallucinations or motion sickness, was the last straw near as we can figure. The shape of the internal cockpit space likely put the helmet forward of the controls and forced the plane into the climb.”

Wilbur swallowed thickly, his written notes blurring slightly.

“Captain Quinn would have been unconscious shortly after 10,000ft from hypoxia making the climb unrecoverable. He did not suffer.”

The tears now falling, Wilbur turned from the podium to collect himself. He couldn’t fall apart yet. He turned back to the mic.

“Recovery efforts are underway. The forward fuselage and cockpit have not been located. Helicopters will be performing sweeps to attempt to locate the secondary crash site and hopefully recover the Captain for a proper burial.” Wilbur’s voice cut out and his hands clenched on the podium so hard he heard it creak in the silence.

“I - “I’m sorry” He threw himself away from the podium and rushed off the stage.

Outside the hangar, the day was beautiful, only 8am. It felt like it just happened though the pieces of Quinn’s jet had stopped landing well over 2 hours ago now. He thought it should be dark still, the time moving too fast. Coming to a stop between two of the large silver shapes of the Sabres on the ramp, Wilbur pressed his hands and forehead to the cool metal, the sobs coming hard and fast now. 

He should have stopped Quinn, should have reported the micronaps. Should have reported Atkin when he realized what was going on. He had told the General that had showed up shortly after the accident his suspicions and the confrontation with Quinn. The General, Harding his tag said, Quinn’s boss, had clapped him on the shoulder and walked away without speaking. Wilbur wasn’t sure what would come of that, but he wasn’t in jail with Atkin.

His knees gave out and he crashed down to the hard concrete, barely feeling the pain in his knees so great was the pain in his chest. His best friend was dead.

And it was his fault.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Allen woke in the med bay of the base. Similar enough to the one he had been in after the plane crash on their first case for his hazy eyes to recognize it. His eyes and throat burned and he swallowed thickly. Looking to the foot of his bed he his heart jumped to his throat for a moment at the figure in blue before his blinking revealed the form of Mimi. In a blue dress. She was staring at him, wringing her hands in her lap. 

“Allen?”

His name made the grief return like a punch to the chest, robbing him of air. Mimi seemed to see something in his face and rushed to his side, gathering him to her chest like she did Joel after a nightmare.

“What happened Allen? The helicopter? They came back for me an hour ago but they wouldn't tell me anything, I was so worried. What’s going on, is it Blue Book?” Her voice was shaken.

Allen squeezed his eyes shut, a high pitched whine come out from the strain of holding back the sobs until his chest unclenched.

“Blue Book is over. Captain Quinn - Michael….” A hiccuping sob burst out and he pressed his forehead into Mimi’s shoulder and whispered into her collar.

“Michael died this morning.” 

Mimi froze. Allen just leaned on her shoulder, the tears soaking a wet patch into her blue dress.

“They sent him up to train the pilots here on those new planes and he cracked. Mimi, he thought I was dead.” Lifting his head, Allen starred into her eyes. He could tell she didn’t understand, didn’t understand the connotations the word had.

“Someone told him I was dead while he was off his head exhausted and he ...climbed? The plane broke up. They haven’t found him. They tried to get me here in time to talk to him but he was already gone...” 

Mimi stared at his face, registering the falling tears and the grief. She wasn’t a huge fan of the Captain though she knew it was more of a shooting the messenger type of dislike because of Project Blue Book. The military man had made her a bit uncomfortable though he had always been polite to her. She didn’t understand the level of grief she could see in Allen, hadn’t realized they had become such close friends.

“Mimi,” Allen’s face crumpled and he pulled her back to him so hard it hurt a bit. His arms round her were shaking.

“I listened to him die Mimi, his mic was on and he -” the choked sound that came out of him scared her.

She understood now. Couldn’t imagine what that must have been like to a sensitive man like Allen. Holding Allen as he fell to pieces in her arms, she sat there a long time with him. Eventually the tears ran out and he passed out again, most of his weight coming to rest against her.

A shuffling sound at the door made her look over. Another Captain stood in the doorway in his blue service dress. He was clutching 2 small redwood boxes, glossy and somehow formal. Wilbur the name tag read. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot just like Allen’s. Walking carefully to not disturb Allen, the Captain placed one of the boxes on the desk. It had a glass top and inside on the black felt, Mimi could see the shiny chrome wings that matched the ones on Captain Wilbur’s chest. Just below them were the 2 colorful bars she knew were called Ribbons, denoting medals that had been awarded, but for a less formal setting than the medals themselves. 

“Captain's Quinn’s?” Her voice was soft.

Wilbur nodded shortly, not looking at her as he brushed his fingers lightly over the glass. “From his uniform. It was in his office. I was gifted the formal set but Michael would have wanted Dr. Hynek to have these. He didn’t have any family left and the doc was as close as friend as he had lately.”

Captain Wilbur's hand came back up to clutch the other side of the second box, larger than the one on the table, that Mimi realized must hold the medals. He stepped back.

“They found what’s left of the cockpit section, but no sign of Quinn. The funeral ceremony will take place tomorrow at 0800. A little quick,” Wilbur shrugged one shoulder, “but they’re sure he’s gone. The real ceremony will happen when he’s located.”

Mimi nodded, shifting Allen a little into a better position. Wilbur’s expression softened as he watched.

“Tell him thank you. For being such a good friend to Michael.”

Mimi nodded mutely, her own eyes beginning to water a bit as the reality of everything sunk in. A man was dead, had died audibly for people to hear. Allen’s new career was over and they wouldn’t be seeing this Base again. She watched quietly as Captain Wilbur walked out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

General Harding flinched just slightly at the sound of the guns over his shoulder. Once, twice, three times. Three volleys from an Honour Guard of 10. The Base Commander had wanted to have the ceremony quickly, to honour the fallen while the search continued for the body. They might never find him, if there was anything left at all. 

The cockpit section had been found over 50 miles away, coming down in the forest. It was only found because of a scout troop in the area on a camping trip. The badly mangled wreckage had confirmed the investigators thoughts about the climb being caused by the helmet. It had been jammed so tightly against the instruments that it had actually crushed them on impact. The pilot seat was missing, all indications of a malfunction in the squibs since the eject handle had never been pulled. Captain Quinn’s remains could be anywhere. The winds had been strong and the disintegration so high up that it was practically falling from space. Harding wasn’t holding his breath on finding him.

What a shame. Since the Captain’s death, his redacted files had become available to Harding. He’s been placating the Captain when he told him that Harding thought he was one tough son of a bitch who had earned his admiration, but he truly believed it now. The things the Captain had been forced to do made his stomach turn just to read them. The files read like horror stories, one after the other. They completely explained why Quinn had come up as a name for the Project Blue Book posting and why he was still just a Captain after so many years of service. Shifting from trade to trade would do that and after returning to pilot he was ineligible to operate outside the country anymore. Worries about the enemy trying to abduct or kill him competing with the concerns about his mental health long term. The comments from that Russian turncoat made so much more sense with his new found knowledge.

Fellow Traveller list Quinn was definitely on. With a bounty on his head large enough to buy a personal warship with. There would be rejoicing that their target was gone.

Harding watched dispassionately as the flag was folded. It was presented to Captain Wilbur, another name that Harding knew of but had been passed over for Quinn. They had been friends he knew, Wilbur’s name came up often in the files. Wilbur had actually been posted to this base because Quinn was here. Not that the Captain’s knew this, but it had been noted the grounding effect the man had on Quinn and Quinn was too valuable to lose to craziness. They hadn’t counted on Major Atkin though.

Harding knew Atkin was an idiot, but wasn’t aware just how long things had been going on. His record read like a 12 year harassment campaign against the two Captains, yet they somehow always ended up near each other. He suspected Atkin had something to do with that. Things had been quiet since Quinn had been assigned to Blue Book, putting him out of reach of the Major, but this last month had made up for it since the Sabres arrived.

Harding knew he was an asshole, always had been really, but it frankly appalled him that he hadn’t noticed. Separated as they were by states, Quinn had been his own boss here. A Major stepping in wouldn’t have been such a thing, except for the workload. Atkin had gone well over abuse of power and in fact would be charged with Manslaughter in this incident among a list as long as Harding’s forearm. The system here had failed the Captain. Every check for safety had been overlooked as the man was run into the ground. Some very high people were going to get their bells rung over this if he had anything to say about it.

Harding clenched his hands stiffly at his sides as he walked away from the ceremony. He couldn’t change the past, but he could damn well make sure this didn’t happen again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Almost 240 miles away as the sky was darkening into evening just over the border into Pennsylvania in a small town called Hickory, a farmer spraying the fields was given the shock of his life. Coming down from above was a parachute attached to what he recognized as an airplane seat. With a person attached.

Having been in the military during the war as a maintainer, he didn’t recognize the seat but airplanes had advanced since his wrench turning days. Racing to the spot where the man had disappeared into the corn stalks, he was astonished to find him alive. No helmet, flight suit badly torn and burned with black frostbite on his face and blood coming from his nose and ears, the pilot was unconscious. His breathing was labored, rough and gunky sounding. The seat had tipped backwards after the hit and Bill could see the damage to it. This man couldn’t have been shot down so it must have been an accident that caused the ejection. He was clearly a military pilot from the badge on his chest and upper arm.

Pulling out his knife, Bill set to cutting the webbing from the man’s body, freeing him as gently as he could from the mangled seat as the parachute flipped and twisted in the wind over head, tangled in the corn. He could hear shouting and welcomed the sight of his son Anthony racing through the rows to meet him. His son stumbled at the sight, nearly falling on his face in astonishment.

“Go get the truck!” Bill snapped out. “He needs a hospital!”

It took a while to free the pilot from the seat, never waking him up though he made noises of distress as he was manhandled into the bed of the truck. Laid on the hay there, Bill drove to the hospital quickly, taking care to hit as few bumps as possible while his son watched over the man. Mid 30s Bill guessed, dark hair and probably good looking when he wasn’t in the truck bed looking like he’d been blown up.

Arriving at the hospital, Anthony racing inside screaming for help, Bill forgot all about trying to notify the military. The police arrived and quickly had him filling out paperwork and driving back to his field for the seat and chute with the cops in tow. It was only the next day, as he watched TV with Anthony and his wife in his first moment of calm since finding the pilot, that he remembered.

A news story was running about a mid air breakup of a new F-86 Sabre jet from Wright-Patterson AFB almost 240 miles away in Ohio. As they showed pictures of the pilot presumed lost in the accident, talking about his military career and decorations before cutting to scenes of the Honor Guard Salute, Bill recognized the face. He could almost guarantee it was the man from his field. How high had the jet come apart to end up in Hickory?

He nearly tripped over the dog on his way to the phone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hynequinn finally shows itself :)

 

Two days.

Had it really only been two days? Captain Wilbur ran his hand over the cool black metal of the old Ford’s hood. Michael’s car was still sitting where he had left it that night. Parked slightly crooked in the spot next to the lamp post. Michael’s shoes were still on the ground next to the driver’s door. They hadn’t remembered to put them in the car. Through the window Wilbur could see the brown leather bomber jacket laying on the seat where it had been dropped, waiting it’s owners return.

His hand shook as he reached for the handle. The door was only caught on the first part of the latch and not even locked. The battery was dead, no lights coming on in response to the open door. 

Slowly Wilbur lowered himself into the seat, moving the jacket out of the way. Reaching one arm down he picked up the shoes and placed them in the passenger foot well. The keys were still in the ignition. Wilbur’s hand gripped the wheel at the bottom. 

The gauges in front of him blurred.

“Captain!”

The sudden hammering on the metal trunk made him jump, heart climbing into his throat for a minute as he looked around wildly. A pilot from the local squadron, callsign Red, was coming around the car to the open door with a huge grin. Wilbur wasn’t even sure he knew the man’s real name. He was in no mood to be bothered though.

“Captain,” the voice was slightly breathless. As if Red had run all the way across the ramp.

“Yes?” A bright grin, though Wilbur wasn’t sure what for.

“You need to come with me right now to the helipad.”

Wilbur squinted up at the other man. “Now? I’m kinda busy-”

Hands drummed at the car door in a quick stattaco to interrupt him. “Hollywood is alive!”

Wilbur froze, a vice clamping around his chest stealing his breath. That wasn’t fucking funny. He knew the other man could see the look on his face because he hurried to spit out the rest.

“He came down over the border in Pennsylvania! A farmer found him and brought him to the hospital! Quinn’s hurt bad, but he’s alive they said! Sounds like the news was bounced all over the place before they found someone that believed it. The bird is on the way in a couple minutes to go get him and bring him to the Infirmary. If you wanna be on it, we gotta go now!”

Wilbur had already ripped the keys from the ignition, physically pushing the other man with the car door to open it fully when he didn’t move fast enough. In a move reminiscent of 2 nights ago, he grabbed the other man’s arm and pulled, heading away from the car. The other man kicked the car door closed as he stumbled behind Wilbur towards the far end of the hangar’s apron where the gray helicopter could be seen in the distance. The flight crew already doing their walk arounds.

Tersely nodding to the pilot, he climbed on, dropping down into a seat and picking up the set of headphones hooked over the seat tube behind him. Red stood outside where Wilbur had let go of him, indecision on his face. A quick glance back at the tower and Red was climbing into the helicopter through the man door to sit next to him. The bird was huge, the 2 passengers sitting at the front of the cargo space on the seats folded down from the side walls. 

Wilbur was at once grateful and alarmed to see the surgical suite set up in the rest of the space. Logically he knew this was one of the SAR birds, complete with an onboard Flight Surgeon and basically an operating room, used during war for combat injuries and evacuation. It was also likely a testament to how injured Michael probably was.

When was he ejected? How high up? 

Wilbur had heard from the Investigators that the eject handle in Michael’s jet hadn’t been pulled. The seat had malfunctioned somehow, but the height and sequence of events weren’t known. It could be bad.

The helicopter had started while Wilbur was staring at the setup and he was finally shaken from his thoughts by the remainder of the crew coming aboard. The Flight Surgeon sat across from him gave him a small smile and flicked the mic button on his headset cord.

“It's good news we’re here Captain.” He nodded to indicate the set up. “We happened to be here for training so this is a bit excessive, but the local hospital in Hickory isn’t equipped to deal with Ejection injuries and they aren’t sure what to look for. Last report was they had Captain Quinn stable on a backboard and sedated for us to pick up. He’s going to require breathing assistance for the move and a short travel time. We fit the bill for speed and facilities so they asked us to provide transport.”

Wilbur could feel himself nodding. He knew tears were dripping down his face again, but felt no judgement. These men all knew what it was like to lose a buddy, and to gain one back they thought was dead, and the relief he felt at the assessment of Michael’s condition was incredible. The vise around his chest loosening just a bit.

Even with dual rotors the trip to Hickory took well over an hour. Mostly sitting in silence, he spoke little to the men around him, though he listened to the conversation. Red’s name was Adam Wall. The former Mustang pilot was a warm weight against his side, the interior of the helicopter fairly cold, and Wilbur focused on his presence to center himself. 

Wilbur was amazed actually at the turn around the pilots of the Flight that had been on the bombing sim with Michael. As the news of what had been happening to Quinn came out, so did the stories. Many of the people on the maintenance line knew Quinn from the war and the years he’d been at Wright-Patterson. The military liked to reminisce about fallen comrades to each other to remember them and though it hurt to talk about the good times, it was healing as well. The pilots had learned so much it felt like they knew the man they lost personally. The anger at the loss of their Mustang Fighters was put to the wayside, placed on Major Atkin where it should have been, but mostly let go. The time of radial engines was coming to a close and after flying the Sabres, they knew why.

Wall was here to help Wilbur. He’d come to be moral and emotional support, feeling invested in what happens to the 2 men trying to help his Squadron.

The hospital in Hickory was tiny, a small 2 story building with a large parking lot surrounded by trees. Half of the lot had been emptied and cordoned off by the local police force. Of course, it being a small town, the locals knew what was going on so a crowd had formed against the barricades to watch the helicopter land. The rotor wash blasted the lot with stinging sand and dust though the pilots dumped the collective quickly to limit the debris. The blades flattening out in pitch and the engine noise dropping down to manageable levels at idle. After the one minute cool down, his impatience and anxiety growing again, Wilbur could hear the moment the pilots cut fuel. The sound of the blades slowed before the scream of the rotor brake cut in to bring the blades to a stop.

Wilbur was out of his seat, the headset tossed down and standing behind the FE waiting impatiently at the door as the blades made their final rotations. Captain Wall right behind him. 

The walk to the hospital was a fair distance, but Wilbur crossed it fast, his long legs carrying him so quickly to the main doors that the shorter Captain had to do an awkward half jog to keep up. He was met inside by a doctor, the man’s eyes flicking to the name on his chest.

“Captain Glenn Wilbur?” He acknowledged the question with a curt nod, eyes ranging over the man’s head to search the room. The Doctor stuck out his hand.

“I’m Dr. May. Your friend is right this way.” He turned and started walking deeper into the hospital, head turned back to still talk.

“We received the notification that you are Mr. Quinn’s medical proxy from the Base this morning. He’s stable right now, but we’re unsure of the full extent of his injuries.” The doctor pushed past a swinging door into a room. On the bed in the center, strapped down to an orange backboard was Michael.

He was unconscious, drugged to keep the pain at bay from what Wilbur could see were extensive injuries. A strap over his forehead and a neck collar hid some of the damage but at first glance Wilbur was amazed the man was alive. Shoved into his mouth and taped in place was a respirator tube, the machine next to him rhythmically hissing as it breathed for him. His left arm was bound against his chest instead of his side, and his face was a wreck. Black and garish red frostbite damage covered Michael’s cheeks, ears and the part of his forehead that Wilbur could see. Darker cuts and burns speckled his visible skin from shrapnel during the ejection. His left leg was in a temporary cast from the hip to the foot. A broken femur.

The Doctor walked around the bed to face Wilbur over Michael’s body and gestured to the backboard. 

“He came down still in the seat so we didn’t know if there was spinal damage and we don’t have the machines to look -”

“He was still IN the seat on landing?!” Wilbur was shocked. The ejection seat was not supposed to stay with the pilot past the main canopy deployment. That was the purpose of the ALSE harness. The seat would depart and leave the tool/survival kit attached to the pilot. 

The doctor blinked at him. “Yes, Bill said he cut Mr. Quinn out of the seat himself and drove him here in the bed of his truck.” 

Wilbur ran his hand up over his face into his hair. There was a high chance Michael’s back was broken then. That explained the backboard. It was hard enough to land after an ejection if you were even conscious, but unconscious and still in the pilot seat? Probably what got his leg actually, now that he was thinking about it.

The Flight crew came into the room at that moment and the small space devolved into a scene of controlled chaos as Michael was prepped to transfer to the helicopter. The machines breathing for him were carefully disconnected, the shrill noise of the alarm making them flinch. Wilbur grabbed one of the lower handles on the backboard on the Lift command, unable to see his friend’s face in this condition and stay useful. Captain Wall had the opposite handle, the FE and Co-pilot at the top, and he spared a small smile with a grunt of effort as they lifted Michael off the hospital bed and made their way to the door. 

Wilbur grabbed the ALSE harness from the chair as they passed with his opposite arm. The patches on it stating Michael’s name clearly along with blood type. It was burned too, probably a write off but he couldn’t leave it there. It had saved Michael’s life.

The crowd outside was silent as they watched the crew walk slowly towards the aircraft, the battered body on the backboard in plain sight. Settling him onto the gurney there, he was strapped down as the pilot’s restarted the engines. The blades overhead spinning up to 100% RPM in seconds. 

They took off as soon as the Flight Surgeon indicated Michael was stable again. He had been breathing on his own on the walk out, the rough gurgling alarming Wilbur. The Surgeon explained it was fluid in his lungs brought on from damage from the cold and the suffocation. The machine would help keep him oxygenated while it healed and prevent coughing further damaging the sensitive tissues.

Wilbur spent most of the trip standing at Michael’s side as the Surgeon checked over what he could. He was stable.

Michael was alive and that’s what mattered now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mimi woke with a start. It was dark still, the clock reading 4am. The bed beside her was cold. Allen hadn’t slept a full night since the accident and she was getting used to waking up alone. It was a week now and Mimi felt at her wits end.

Getting out of the bed she grabbed her housecoat and walked slowly down the hall towards Allen’s office. Allen was sitting on the small couch inside his room, legs curled to his chest in a small ball leaning against the back, eyes closed and breathing deep. He was asleep. Mimi could see the remains of tear tracks on his face though the skin was no longer red. He’d been asleep a little while.

It was a common place for her to find him now days. Above his shoulder on the shelf, Mimi could see the small redwood box standing on its side facing the desk. A small desktop American flag next to it nearly obscured the contents but she knew what they were. The chrome edge of one wing shining dimly in the lamp light. Captain Quinn’s medals.

She knew Allen wasn’t dealing well with this but she didn’t know what to do. She knew objectively that this was where he felt close to Quinn, the medals all he had of the other man but she was resentful that he wasn’t coming to her in his grief. He was isolating himself in this room with a dead man’s war memorabilia and she hated it. She was his wife.

What had Quinn been?

This level of grief scared her. It was a good thing that the university classes had ended shortly before the accident because Mimi was sure Allen would have lost his job by now. He stayed in this room curtains drawn, all day. She found him here like this at night too. The times he stayed in bed he woke her with incoherent shouts and crying but she wouldn’t let him place the box on the bedside table. So he came here.

He could sleep like this next to them. The only time he slept at all.

Mimi had suspicions actually. Her own feelings towards Susie sort of giving her a window into Allen. They hadn’t been a proper couple in a while. Years really, not since Joel had been born though they were best friends and loved each other. Intimacy had been few and far between in the past few years though it had seemed to work for them.

She knew the feelings she felt towards Susie were much stronger than friendship. Maybe Allen had felt that for Quinn.

Before they married they had both drunkenly admitted to each other that they found both sexes attractive. She hadn’t thought much of it since Allen was with her and she had admitted it herself anyway. Now though, faced with the possibility of her husband of 13 years being in love with another man, she didn’t know if she could deal with it anymore. That was hypocritical of herself she realized, but couldn’t help the hurt.

Was she such a bad wife that she had driven her husband into the arms of a man?

Pushing the hurt down hard to where it sat under her ribs like a stone she walked over to wake Allen. His puppy eyes raised sleepily to meet hers and for a minute they were the old Allen. Mimi could literally see the moment where Allen realized where he was. The blue of his eyes had turned a flat looking navyish grey color, the spirit gone and the grief only made them worse. It looked like he died inside every time he looked at her. Like he was hoping she was someone else.

It hit her like a train in that moment. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t sit and watch her husband waste away from grief over a MAN he loved more than her. She had more self-respect than that.

She stepped back, resolve hardening her own eyes. Allen just watched her.

“I’m taking Joel to my mother’s.” Allen looked like he was about to say something, stirring on the couch but she rushed to cut him off.

“I don’t know what’s going on Allen but I can’t help you. You don’t want me anyway, you want HIM,” she gestured to the box over his shoulder. “I can’t compete with that anymore,” her voice broke.

“I need some space Allen.”

He stayed silent as she left the room. It hurt worse than if he chased her. She knew she was right. But she couldn’t compete against a dead man for her husband’s love.

She didn’t see Allen again as she rousted a sleepy Joel out of bed and made him pack, heading out to their car at 6am. Too early for the nosy neighbors to see the suitcases she shoved in the trunk.

The house remained as dark as she’d left it as they backed out of the driveway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Allen sat on the couch for a long time after Mimi left. The house was silent round him and he could hear his own breathing, obnoxiously loudly. He wasn’t crying but his nose was stuffed and his throat was rough. It should hurt more than it did, Mimi leaving, but he also realized that what she said was true. The thought of Michel hurt worse, the grief overwhelming all other feelings and smothering them under the weight.

He didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know WHY it hurt so much. The strength of the grief worrying him as much as Mimi, but smothered by it too. 

His eyes cast upwards to the small box on the shelf. When he’d woke in the Infirmary on base and seen the box there it had seemed like a good thing. Something to remember his friend by. Now, it hurt to see.

Every glance brought to mind that face, the ribbons on that blue covered chest below that smile. Small smiles though they were, that Allen realized had brightened his day like the sun when he saw them. That blinding smile full of teeth he had seen twice could make his heart stop. The brown eyes and dark, expressive brows had come to roost somewhere in his heart he hadn’t felt anything in a long time. He knew he loved Mimi, loved his son, but it didn’t hold a candle to this.

The thought of never seeing those features again, never hearing that deep rumble of a voice brought fresh tears to his eyes. He couldn’t seem to stop crying anymore. Logically he knew what it meant. 

Mimi was right. 

He had been in love with the Captain. 

Still was. 

The knowledge hurt almost as much as the loss of the man himself. The realization fixed nothing. Michael was still gone, and gone with him was any chance of anything happening between them.

That probably made him the worst husband ever, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He would trade everything just to see Michael again. 

Even his own life.

That realization shook him a bit, the reality setting in that the grief was literally making him think of ending his life to be with Michael. He shook his head, clarity coming back to him, and stood upon shaky legs. He reached out and ran his fingers over the glass lid. Michael wouldn’t want him to do that. The veteran had fought for Allen and the country to live, not take their life to be with him. He would honor that. No matter how much it hurt to do.

Allen had just finished showering when he heard a knock at the door. It was quiet, a bit unsure as if the lack of a car in the driveway made the person sure that no one was home but attempting anyway.

Throwing on a housecoat he opened the door slightly to reveal Captain Wilbur’s tall, blonde form. The Captain was dressed in service blues, wheel cap on his head. He looked better than the last time Allen had seen him, the weight on his shoulders was gone and he gave Allen a small, embarrassed smile.

“Good morning Dr. Hynek. I was hoping I would catch you at home.”

Allen bobbed his head and stepped back to open the door a bit more. “Please, come in Captain. Do you mind if I go throw something on quickly?” He had a feeling what the Captain was there for and he didn’t want to have that conversation in his housecoat.

The Captain stepped inside, tucking his headdress under his left arm as he closed the door. “No, please do. This is a topic better spoken when comfortable.”

Allen dressed quickly and came back out to the livingroom to find Captain Wilbur sitting on the edge of one of the chairs. The man gestured to the couch. “Please sit Doctor.”

The Captain took an audible deep breath as Allen sat down and gave him that embarrassed look again.

“First off, let me say I am very sorry for not coming out sooner. I hadn’t realized no one had told you what happened until today.” Allen cocked his head, not sure what the Captain was referring to.

“We found Michael.” Allen sucked in a breath so hard it hurt. The next words had his vision graying at the edges, his stomach swooping like a bird.

“He’s alive Allen. Michael is alive.”

Wilbur seemed to recognize what was happening and reached a hand out to steady him. Allen’s hands came up to grasp the one on his shoulder as he focused on Wilbur’s face. The was no sign of joking there.

‘Wha-what? How?”

Wilbur spoke slowly. “We’re not sure but it looks like wings came off and let the fuselage fall in mostly one piece until the Liquid Oxygen system blew up around 30,000 feet. Michael’s plane broke in 2 and it pushed him away with the cockpit section. Somehow the ejection seat fired and got him out. He went through the canopy since the eject cycle wasn’t initiated but he was close enough to safe height that he wasn’t deprived of oxygen for very long. The LOX explosion helped a bit they figure. He landed in Hickory Pennsylvania. A farmer found him and brought him to the hospital.”

Allen was shaking he realized. He couldn’t find the words and looked up at Wilbur, desperation on his face.

Wilbur patted his hands, still clutching the man’s right one, with the other hand.

“This is why I wanted to say I’m sorry.” Another deep breath. “Michael has been back at the Infirmary on Wright-Pat for 6 days now.”

Allen choked.

“I didn’t know that no one had told you yet Doc, I’m so sorry.” Wilbur's voice was anguished. Allen interrupted him.

“I need to see him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Wilbur stood back and let Dr. Hynek enter the room ahead of him. Inside was darkened, lights not necessary during rest hours. Michael had his own room in the infirmary, his injuries significant enough to warrant keeping him separated. 

He had come from another surgery a few hours ago now and was still sedated. His broken leg was bared by the blanket, the cast not yet applied, and the surgery scar was pretty gnarly to look at. Michael was naked under the blanket still, the blanket exposing his hip and his chest to the open air so the nurses could monitor him. Wilbur was glad to see that his back was no longer braced too.

Allen’s fingers traced lightly over the skin next to the incision just above Michael’s knee and Wilbur explained.

“The hospital in Hickory didn’t have a working X-ray to check it, just stabilized it. The bone was a clean break but it heals weird like that so they decided to put a rod in it and a plate to hold it together. 37 screws in there now.”

He watched as Allen jerked his hand away. Wilbur wasn’t a homophobe but he knew what he was looking at. Allen’s face read like an open book. He’d suspected ever since he met the man really. Allen loved Michael, maybe more than as a friend. The relief on his face had melted away to a tender look as Allen moved up to Michael’s head. Wilbur could see the love there as Allen touched the straps holding the left arm tight to Michael’s chest. His collar bone was broken and his shoulder badly wrenched from flail injuries during the fall. With Michael unconscious and not able to complain about the awkward binding, they’re decided to take advantage and keep it supported. The easiest thing to use was Michael’s torso. 

Even though there was a steady beeping in the background of the machines monitoring Michael’s heart, Wilbur watched Allen place his hand on Michael’s chest. Most of the skin was a riot of colors, bruises in various stages painting the design of the aircraft restraints and his ALSE harness into his skin. The touch made Michael twitch a bit, but Allen didn’t touch the bruising. The love Wilbur could see made his own heart ache.

He knew Michael well, the man was a huge flirt with women but had never had real partner outside of hookups. Wilbur suspected that Michael might have a leaning towards men, he’d gotten the feeling the first time they’d met that Michael had harbored a crush on him for a little while. He’d ignored the signs and things had evened out eventually into the best friendship Wilbur had ever had. He regretted nothing, but he’d always wanted Michael to be happy.

Allen wasn’t looking at him anymore, Wilbur fading into unimportance next to the fact that Michael was alive in the bed before him. He stepped out, leaving the two men alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Allen couldn’t believe it. The body in the bed was so beat up as to be almost unrecognizable, but he knew it was Michael. The relief he felt made him dizzy he felt so light. 

He sat down with a thump into the chair at the bedside, only vaguely registering as Captain Wilbur left the room, the door closing behind him. Allen let his eyes wander over the figure before him, taking in everything before focusing on the chest next to him. Michael’s breathing was steady, he no longer required the machine to breath, just a nasal cannula but the sound was rough. Allen could see the marks from the ventilator that was pushed off to the far side of the room on Michael’s face. He was almost glad he hadn’t seen Michael when he first arrived, the frostbite on his face and the bruising must have been much worse 6 days ago.

It was hard enough now to see Michael so hurt.

Reaching his hand up, Allen brushed the soft, dark hair away from Michael's eyes. It had been washed and it spiked softly as it dried. The motion calmed Allen’s racing heart and mind. Exhaustion pulled at him. He hadn’t slept well all week and the urge now was getting the best of him. Leaning his forearms on the bed next to Michael’s waist, Allen put his head on them, head lolled to the side to look upwards at Michael’s damaged but peaceful face.

He fell asleep there, nose nearly brushing Michael’s skin. The faint scent of the other man lulling him into the deepest sleep he’d had in a long time, his mind content knowing that Michael was right there. There would be time tomorrow to figure things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angel will continue in the next installment of this series.


End file.
